Knight in Shining Arthur
by Chuck's Prophet
Summary: Sure, he saved his backside once or twice, but that doesn't mean he owes him his heart—or that Gwaine owns it, no less. Established Merthur. Gwaine/Arthur. Rated T for detailed kissing and some adult themes.


Knight in Shining Arthur

***Takes place sometime after 3x08***

"Merlin, you may not be royalty but you are most certainly a royal pain in my arse."

"It's just an interesting observation... and, you know, observationally interesting."

"Yes, well, while you were dollaping around making 'interesting observations' did you bother tending to the horses?"

Merlin gesticulated like a mad scientist, "Ha! You said dollap, Dollap-head."

The young warlock's Sire just gaped at him. One minute Merlin—his completely incompetent servant—convicts him of having romantic feelings for the peasant boy next door, the next he's undermining his intelligence with a fictitious name-callings. The former wasn't in any way true, of course—putting too much creed in a boy who couldn't keep his chores straight would surely leave his kingdom in peril. Gwaine was a crofter. Sure, he saved his backside once or twice, and Arthur knows as good as anyone with a left brain that he'll owe the man his life sooner or later, but that doesn't mean he owes him his heart—or that Gwaine _owns _it, no less.

Because he certainly doesn't; Arthur's heart belongs to Guinevere. Even if she and Lancelot had a fruitful past, she had a good heart. She always comes back to him.

Except that night when Lancelot acted out of pity for the young Prince and left for Guinevere's comfort. Little to either men's knowledge, the blacksmith's daughter was at less comfort when she awoke to find her knight in shining armor farther than arm's length. He wasn't mad at Lancelot; Lancelot was a nobleman beyond his title. He was mad at himself. Mad that he couldn't be someone's universe, someone's knight in shining armor.

And then he met Gwaine. He saved Arthur's life and fled Camelot shortly after becoming cognizant of his celebrity status. Of all the riches Uther Pendragon's son could have bequeathed him and Gwaine wanted nothing in return. It could have been adulation or complete malice toward the young Prince (because these days, who _isn't _mad at Arthur?), either way Gwaine chose to lead a life of solitude over embellishing in those riches.

Guinevere wanted Arthur's hand in marriage.

Gwaine wanted Arthur to be as he was.

"You haven't answered my question." Merlin cocked his head to the side, a pearly white smile tugging on his face and Arthur was reminded of how he fell in love with the stable boy.

"What was the question?"

Save for the sound of his rickety breath, the Sire crossed his bedchamber soundlessly until his arms adorned his lover's waist, annunciating every syllable with a peck to his lips, "You are im-poss-i-ble, Mer-lin."

"Coming from the man with repressed feelings," he smarted, turning his back. Arthur sighed again.

"I do not have—" He began to seethe, and then remained stationary, realizing that he indeed _sounded like a man with repressed feelings_. Arthur was a future King, for Christ's sake, had he the decency to not sound like such a supercilious twat? He proceeded with more caution, this time managing a sentence without bursting a vessel, "I do not have suppressed feelings."

"_Re_pressed," Merlin amended, dragging his thumb beneath his upper lip and tugged, "with an _r_."

Arthur's eyes tapered. "If you fancy your thumb, I highly suggest keeping it put."

"Fine, then tell him."

"What?"

The servant beamed, shrugging like the insouciant bastard he was. "If you don't have any feelings then tell him. I'm sure he'll appreciate the visit."

"Let me get this straight," Arthur said, motioning with his finger, "you want me, future King of Camelot, to risk my life and my men to ascertain a sexless basis with a man a thousand miles away? The same man who single-handedly disowned my father and my kingdom?"

Merlin shook his head, "No, see, now you're twisting my words. I never said to bring the cavalry. That would be completely inappropriate, not to mention aromantic in the least…"

"This is absurd!" he fumed, lunging for his red blouse on his bedpost like a jilted lover. Shrugging it on, he huffed in sheer annoyance. Now the impulsive young Prince was reminded of why he and Merlin had despised each other at first glance: Merlin was too persistent and often too bloody right. Arthur was the kind of guy who would rather keep personal matters personal in spite of his extravagant lifestyle—especially when it came to those he loved.

He and Gwaine… well, what can you say about your best friend's pseudo-brother? Aside from his gallantry, sophistication, unearthly charm, and extraordinary jawline and hair that somehow succeeded in driving Arthur to the madhouse when it spilt rather immaculately over his eyes—

God, he was going to have the biggest "I told you" when he got home.

Merlin eyed him funny. "Where are you going?"

"I'm _going_ to prove you wrong, _Merlin_," he said, stretching his name like an ancient curse. It was Arthur's turn to shift his back as he slid his breastplate (which, if you asked the Dragonlord, was comparable to a five-year-old trying to wriggle into a sweater thrice his size).

The mensch glared at his sword, feeling his boyfriend's eyes boring holes into his back. "Is there something you're neglecting to tell me or are you saving for a fantasy?"

"Nope," he assured, arms folded behind him, "it's just that the red cape brings out your eyes."

Arthur refrained from the modesty shading his cheekbones. Counting to three in his head, he grabbed his gear (along with his red cape), and turned on his heels—but not without kissing his inamorato on the cheek. Merlin flushed pink and rolled his eyes, though he couldn't see anything beyond the diamonds sleeping there.

"Thank God for reverse-psychology."

Mercia was a two days' journey on horseback, four on foot. He wouldn't have knowledge of the latter if his Boy Wonder and horse tender extraordinaire had neglected to muck out the stables, leaving him with a smelly steed. And there was no way Prince Arthur was gallivanting the copses on a malodorous foal when he had two perfectly good feet to support his weight. His heart may have sweltered beyond normal capacity since Merlin and more recently Gwaine, but his pride always triumphed in the prize fight for his head.

When he arrived with his hopeless mount, feet achy, he was directed by a group of country-dwellers to a tavern east of the village ("There, you will find the handsome bettor you seek," said one with a toothy yellow grin). _Of course_, thought the young Prince. He expected nothing short of dragging out an intoxicated hustler with a sore spot for losing. Arthur paid them considerably in spite of their delusions—because Arthur Pendragon most certainly did not have lust in his eyes—and set his sights toward the rising sun.

No one stopped on account of the future King (they never did), especially when he flung his nearly incapacitated body at the two thickset men that had Gwaine. Between the two of them, the crofter had taken hearty blows to his face and lumbar region. The rest of the drunkards hooted and hollered, reminding Arthur of a theatre production, wherein Gwaine was a dummy and his creditors were the puppeteers. Once Arthur got ahold of them… well, let's just say the thing that thinly separated him from them was a hand up their rumps.

In the end, as posited, the rajah was carrying one-hundred fifty pounds of deadweight.

"You know, this whole tavern scene is getting a bit dull," he muttered, hoisting him by his underarm. "What's wrong with a nice lake or a brothel?" He felt what a weak attempt at a laugh was. Blood began to cake around the corners of Gwaine's mouth and dribble from his lower lip when he replied, "Now where would be the fun in that?"

Arthur rolled his eyes to hide a bashful smile. "I can see why Merlin takes a liking to you."

"He's not the only one." The young Prince's veins ran cold with uncertainty. The older gentleman must not have taken light to the circumstance because he was just beaming at him through heavy-lidded orbs. If he thought he was going to jostle a response out of him, he had another thing—

"What?" …coming.

Gwaine carded back a loose curl that in _no way, shape or form _was bothering Arthur formerly and, instead of remaining stagnant like he should've in his condition, met him with a slight limp. His stench was of clay and perspiration. The medallion around his neck glowed like something fierce. In his trance, Arthur took note of the gold piece behind the Egyptian relic—a promise ring, welded for a man of his build judging by the proportions.

"Don't play me for a fool, Jewels," he said, pursing his lips. "You can hide behind your armor but don't think for a second that you can hide behind your heart."

"Gwaine, I'm flattered, but I don't—I'm not—" A pause and the other man lifted a brow. "I'm sorry if I led you to believe my intentions coming here were impure…"

The bearded gentleman folded his arms across his chest, defiant. "What _was _your reason in coming to Mercia? Surely the Prince of Camelot has no interest in gambling and lukewarm liquor."

"I have private matters to attend to… in private," he tried with a gulp. Gwaine had moved closer.

"And you pulled me from a bet because…?"

Arthur bit his lip. "Would you believe me if I said Merlin was in trouble?"

"Merlin's always in trouble, that's why he's always here."

"I heard you were in trouble."

"I'm always in trouble, Jewels," the brute of a man replied, arms extended, almond eyes crinkling. "That's why _I'm _always here. You're going to have to try better than that."

And Arthur did when he reeled him in by the nape of his neck and bonded their lips together like a man and ancient prophecy. He had to quash the moan hitched in the back of his throat when Gwaine slotted his tongue on the underside of his mouth, pushing and tasting and exploring the young Prince. Soon, it was he who had dominance over the embrace, leaving Arthur the one hungry for exploration as his hands slipped, uncovering Gwaine's broad chest underneath his chemise.

Then the young Prince was fracturing the embrace, pulling a classic Merlin: "I don't like you."

"That's good," Gwaine replied, chuckling in spite of his windedness, "because I despise you."

**-END-**


End file.
